


Rudie can't fail

by Loftec



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Friends to Enemies to Lovers, GGE2017, High School, Ian/original character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-04 23:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: Gallavich gift exchange 2017! Written for @iknewyoudcome on tumblr ♡Prompt: 80's high-school ficIan and Mickey are mortal enemies at school, constantly trying to get each other into trouble.While inspired by 80s (and 90s, and 00s let's be real) high school movies, this fic isn't set in the 80s.Playlist





	Rudie can't fail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blodeuwedd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blodeuwedd/gifts).



.

 

 

 

 

**Alright**

 

“Hey Gallagher, catch!”

Ian spins around in time to see a football soaring towards him in a low curve, passing over the heads of the students milling around in the hallway between periods. Taking half a step back, Ian grins as he easily grips the ball mid-air and brings it down safely. People seem to almost subconsciously part and flow around Sean as he makes his way through the crowd, eyes pinned on Ian alone.

“Nice form,” he says when he’s close enough.

“Please,” Ian huffs and smirks at his boyfriend’s proud assessment, shaking his head and playfully shoving the ball back into Sean’s broad chest, “half the fucking chess-club could’ve caught that one, give me a challenge next time.”

“Alright,” Sean pretends to sigh, stepping in a little closer than necessary, “if you think you can handle it.”

Ian shifts his stance and squares his back, and tilting his head back a little tries to make it look like he’s at least as tall as Sean, if not as wide and naturally impressive.

He’s not even a little bit successful, but whatever. Guess that’s the price you gotta pay for dating the school’s tall and hunky star quarterback.

“Someone get a hose,” Tammy breaks out of the crowd and takes Ian by the arm, pulling at him to get them to move along, “please, not in the middle of the hallway. You guys are a damn fire hazard.”

Ian rolls his eyes but lets himself get dragged along, joining their group of friends as they move down the hallway.

“Shut up,” he tries, ignoring Sean’s pleased smile next to him, “wasn’t doing anything.”

“Yet,” Tammy points out, holding up a finger, “who knows what debauchery we’d have come across if Jess hadn’t stopped me from going out for a smoke like I wanted.”

“You’ve quit, how many times do I have to remind you?” Jess doesn’t bother looking up from her phone, expertly zig-zagging through the crowd and typing out quick-fire texts at the same time. “Smoking is bad for you and anyway, it’s not a cute look.”

“Being cute,” Tammy puts her hands under her chin and bats her eyelashes, smiling when Ian smirks at her show, “my goal in life.”

“Good,” Jess says, either completely missing or ignoring her friend’s scathing sarcasm as she lets the subject go and turns her relentless focus to Ian, “question; glitter or neon?”

Ian blinks and feels his mouth fall open as he tries and fails to find any kind of context for that one.

“Neither?” he says and looks to Sean for help, who only shrugs and shakes his head.

“You should probably pick one,” Tammy offers, “leave it up to Jess and you know the sign’s gonna end up with both.”

Groaning, Ian peels off from the group to head over to his locker, turning around and backing up the last couple of steps so he can point at Jess.

“I told you I didn’t want you doin’ anything for the game,” he tries to be authoritative, but probably ends up sounding a lot like he’s pleading, which he honestly isn’t above doing at this point, so; “please?”

“Ian,” Jess sighs and puts her phone away so she can give him her trademark hard stare, “you’re team captain now and this is the Homecoming game, it’s a big deal. This is not my decision if that’s what you’re worried about, all the cheerleaders are – for _once_ – in total agreement about supporting you next week.”

“Yeah, but-,” Ian winces, leaning back against his locker and gesturing aimlessly at the people around them, “so do something for the whole team, why do you gotta single me out?”

“Dude, they wanna do something nice for you,” Sean laughs, completely missing the whole point of Ian’s argument, “let them.”

“I just-,” Ian tries again and sighs in frustration when he can’t find the words, frowning when his soon to be ex-friends seem more amused by his discomfort than interested in hearing him out. This is his point exactly, and they obviously won’t get it no matter how much he tries to tell them how this kind of attention makes him feel.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” Jess assures him, smiling like she’s already won. Which she probably has. “We’re not doing a routine or anything, just a tasteful fifteen by fifteen feet sign saying something encouraging, like ‘home run Gallagher’, or ‘batter batter Ian’.”

“Those are both _terrible_ ,” Ian sputters, gaping at the cheerleader when she waves off his complaint.

“We’re spitballing, brainstorming!”

“And I pitch.” 

“See!” Jess exclaims and gets her phone out again, presumably to take notes. “Now I know.”

Ian groans and hits his head back against the locker, ignoring the way his boyfriend is just standing around grinning at this whole debacle. At least he didn’t start making innuendos halfway through, that would have been the _most_ unhelpful he could have been.

“This is why there’s no cheerleading in baseball,” he mutters and turns his back on the three strangers still standing around and waiting for him, for some reason.

“Just relax into it,” Tammy tells him, and Ian’s ears burn when he hears Sean crack up behind him, “it’ll hurt less.”

“Fuck all of you,” Ian mutters as he spins the lock around, but he can’t help cracking a small smile when it only gets his friends to break out in a fresh fit of giggles.

Hitting the locker in just the right spot, the finicky door jumps and creaks open like it always does, before it suddenly flies open like it’s being pushed from the inside. It rattles against the locker to his right as a small mountain of glossy magazines pours out to flop and pool around his feet on the floor.

“The fuck?” he exclaims and gingerly tries to jump out of the pile without falling on his ass. He’s just caught sight of a pair of inflated tits on one of the covers before-

“Mr Gallagher!”

“Shit,” Ian bites out under his breath, but stays in place and waits for Vice Principal Higgins to come to him.

“Language, young man!” he says, all worked up before he’s even noticed the pile of porn on the floor. “And what is this?”

And there it is, Higgins’ eyes practically bug out of his head when he sees what just poured out of Ian’s locker.

“Listen,” Ian throws a quick look at his friends, remaining close and on standby in case Ian would need them to jump in and help, “I can explain.”

“You better!” Higgins huffs and looks a little annoyed when Ian crouches down and quickly starts gathering the porn up into a slightly neater pile. He needs a second to figure out his game, and when he’s getting back up with at least five different naked women clutched to his chest he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what to say.

“These aren’t mine,” he says, leaning closer to the Vice Principal and really leaning into the fact that he isn’t lying, _yet_ , looking at Higgins with all the wide-eyed innocence he can muster. “I found them in the locker room this morning, I don’t know who put them there.”

Higgins looks confused, but not convinced. “What kind of idiot do you take me for-”

“I swear,” Ian risks interrupting the man, “I only took them so I could destroy them, I know your policy on this stuff.”

“And I know you young boys’ fascination with this filth,” Higgins resolutely shakes his head, “Principal’s office, Mr Gallagher, right now. I’ll take those.”

Ian sighs but gladly hands over the magazines, meeting Sean’s eyes over Higgins’ shoulder. His boyfriend may be hot as fuck, but he isn’t likely to ever be Ian’s first choice to bring along for a sting. He looks at Ian blankly for a whole second before he suddenly seems to get it and springs into action.

“I’ll see you later then, babe?” he says, stepping up next to Ian and grinning at his annoyed scowl. He could have just told Higgins why Ian isn’t likely to walk around school with a stash of straight porn, but of course he’s gotta put on a whole song-and-dance number.

But then it’s also hard to stay mad at the guy when he swoops in and smacks a nice, long kiss on Ian’s lips – right in front of the stunned Vice Principal – before throwing an arm over Ian’s shoulders and standing proud and tall next to him in the face of authority.

“Maybe you should take those away,” he suggests, eyeing the insufferably straight porn in Higgins’ arms, “they’re hardly appropriate for school.”

Tammy laughs all the way to the cafeteria, once Higgins had huffed out an excuse and told them to go about their day.

“The look on his face,” she sighs happily, “I’d pay to see that again.”

“I don’t think we can get away with making out in front of that guy more than once,” Sean chuckles.

Ian shakes his head, all he cares about is that they got out scot-free and his record remains spotless. Not that it matters now, but old habits die hard.

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” Jess asks as they sit down at an empty table. She frowns when Tammy snorts out another giggle.

“I don’t know,” Ian shrugs, even though he knows exactly why he didn’t.

“You know who did it,” she insists, “we all know who did it! You could’ve gotten him into some real trouble with this one.”

“Over some dirty mags?” Ian questions, raising his eyebrows at Jess when she huffs. “Don’t think so. Anyway, I’m not a fucking snitch, Jess. That shit’s not cool.”

Jess rolls her eyes. “You and your damn code, I swear.”

“Anyway,” Ian says and grins, “won’t be long before I get him back.”

“Hey guys!” Sam practically shouts from across the cafeteria, jogging over with Chris in tow. 

Chris has been on the baseball team and friends with Ian since freshman year, but Sam only started hanging out with them sometime last semester. About the same time when Sean transferred and immediately found his place within the football team and the whole school’s social ladder. At the top, with all the girls swooning over him and all the guys clamoring to be his friend.

And Ian, who didn’t really swoon or try very hard, but still somehow ended up being the one the new future prom king wanted by his side.

It’s all very flattering, but it’s not why Ian started hanging out with Sean over the summer, or why they decided to go steady a few weeks back. Sean’s popular and a goddamn dreamboat, sure, but he’s also _really nice_.

Too nice, sometimes, which might be the only thing explaining how Sam managed to weasel his way into their group of friends.

“Come on,” Sean would whisper to him whenever Sam would say something stupid or offensive and Ian would get that firm line between his eyebrows, creasing his forehead with disapproval, “he’s not _that bad_.”

‘Bad’ is one thing, Ian’s got very few issues with ‘bad’. ‘Bitch-ass prick’ isn’t as easily suffered.

“What’s happening?” Sam asks and sits down next to Jess, ignoring her protests when he reaches over and steals some of her lunch.

“Urgh, just take it,” Jess shoves her tray in front of him and tries to look annoyed when he grabs her half-eaten sandwich and shoves it in his mouth with a pleased smirk. She’s got some kind of fucked up crush on the guy Ian will _never_ understand.

“Nothing much,” Sean answers his question when no one else does.

“Wrong,” Sam grins and leans back in his chair, putting an arm around Jess as he looks around the table, “guess whose parents are away this weekend.”

Ian can’t help it, he smiles along with the rest of them. Sam may be a prick, but he’s a rich prick with a big house.

 

 

**Sexy boy**

 

Mickey is barely out of sight from the main building when he takes out his cigarettes and lights one up, quickly scanning the area out of habit before he slips in under the bleachers. Weaving through the forest of poles it doesn’t take long before he spots the small group of outcasts and weirdos hiding in the shade and privacy behind the school’s temple to meatheaded group mentality and the jacked-up sweaty assholes practicing it.

Fucking jocks.

“Ey losers,” Mickey shouts as he gets closer, leaving the cigarette between his lips so he can grab one of the horizontal bars with both hands and swing himself over another, “your king has arrived.”

He’s greeted with a mixed bag of cheers and boos, and a crumpled and empty beer can only _just_ missing his head as it flies past and hits one of the poles behind him, bouncing off it and landing on the ground.

While he wouldn’t go so far as calling them his friends, the four people grinning up at him now are probably as close as he’s ever gonna get. It’s not like they hang out outside of school, or anything, but knowing he can escape all the other idiots and spend recess in the little den that has been formed around them over time – mostly comprised of cigarette butts, beer cans, and a few odd pieces of plastic furniture – is worth more to him than Mickey’s ever willing to admit.

“Where did you go?” Karen asks, removing her feet from one of the plastic chairs so Mickey can sit down.

“None of your fucking business,” Mickey says around his cigarette, scowling at the dirt left behind Karen’s nasty boots before deciding not to give a fuck and sitting down anyway. “Higgins busting my balls again, man, tryna catch me out.”

“Like he doesn’t catch you enough already,” Bash says and grins happily when Jace laughs at his sad attempt at being funny. 

“Alright smartass,” Mickey complains and glares at Karen when she points out that it’s ‘true though’, “didn’t catch me yesterday, did he? And that shit was genius too, did you see Gallagher’s face?”

“I’m impressed by how many magazines you managed to cram into one locker,” Tia says, and laughs when Jace flails his arms and legs around in an exaggerated impression of Ian, almost tipping his flimsy chair over.

“What can I say,” Mickey smirks through the cigarette smoke, “I’ve got skills.”

“I’m _bored_ ,” Karen suddenly decides to announce, abruptly changing the subject and slouching down in her chair before jumping back up on her feet, “ladies and gentlemen, shall we retire to the sundeck?”

“Fuck, why?” Mickey groans, but quickly smokes his cigarette down to the filter so he can follow the others when they one after one get up and disappear the same way as Karen.

The setting afternoon sun is relentless on top of the bleachers. Mickey settles in next to Karen, who has stretched herself over a couple of seats and hums as she shields her eyes and blatantly ogles the sweaty dudes running around like mindless cattle on the field below.

“Sam’s throwing a party on Saturday,” she says after a couple of minutes of blessed silence, but doesn’t tear her eyes off the football practice to spare Mickey so much as a glance when he looks at her.

“Sam _Fuller_?” he asks, frowning when she only offers back a noncommittal shrug. “Since when do we give a fuck about what that nitwit’s up to, huh?”

Karen shrugs again but turns her head to grin at his prissy incredulity. “Since the promise of free booze?”

“You got invited with the promise of free booze?” Mickey repeats, raising his eyebrows to really underline how fucking unlikely that sounds.

“No,” Karen admits, and when she turns her attention back to the action Mickey can’t help doing the same. No harm in looking. “Don’t need an invitation to crash a party, though. Kinda goes against the whole concept.”

“I guess,” Mickey mutters, his pretty much perpetual scowl smoothing out when his eyes unwittingly land on the lone person steadily jogging around the track. 

His pale skin gleams with sweat and his tousled hair looks like it’s burning in the low sun. Ian moves like a fucking dream when he runs. When he’s walking around school with his friends it’s almost like he’s trying to blend in to the background and disappear, but here – like this – it’s like he shines.

Mickey shakes his head, ‘cause there’s no fucking way he’s stepping foot inside fucking Sam Fuller’s house, not for all the free booze in the world. 

“Fuck that shit.”

“Whatever,” Karen chuckles, “I might go, gotta make an appearance from time to time. Gotta put the work in if I wanna keep my status as the school’s number one skank.”

Mickey is just about to tell her not to worry about _that_ , when he notices a faint smell. It’s very familiar but he can’t quite place it, until the underside of the bleachers suddenly erupt with the obnoxious sound and smoke coming off what must have been a whole pack of firecrackers set off at once.

“Shit, fuck!” he exclaims and flies off his ass, making sure Karen’s moving out of the way as well before he stumbles down a couple of extra steps. Looking around he does a quick headcount of the others, Jace, Bash and Tia are all on their feet and cautiously backing away from the still smoking section of the bleachers where they’d been peacefully lounging only seconds earlier.

“Who the fuck-!” Mickey spits out, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he twists on spot to look around and maybe catch whoever did this before they get away. The whole football team is standing still on the field, staring up at him and the bleachers. No one is running away, but someone is running towards him. Coach Wayans is charging across the field and up the bleachers, ears practically steaming with rage.

“Hey, you!” he says when he’s close enough, pointing squarely at Mickey. “You’re coming with me.”

“I almost got my ass shot off!” Mickey argues, but doesn’t struggle when Coach grabs him by the arm and starts hauling him off the bleachers. “I didn’t do shit!”

“Save it for the court, Mr Milkovich.”

Throwing one last look over his shoulder before he’s pushed off grounds, Mickey sees Ian staring after him. Smirking, the smug asshole shrugs and then raises a hand in an innocent wave goodbye.

 

 

**Bad habit**

 

Ian is waiting by the gate, itching for a smoke, when the gym’s doors finally burst open and Chris and Sam amble outside, whooping and laughing when they spot Ian.

“That was awesome!” Sam cheers and high-fives Ian as soon as they’re close enough.

“Haven’t handled firecrackers since I was like, twelve,” Chris says, eyes still sparkling from their little stunt, “it was fun.”

“Yeah,” Ian grins, “worked perfectly too, you did great.”

“You’re being really childish,” Sean chimes in, having followed the others out the door, “I don’t get why you insist on perpetuating this stupid war.”

Ian sighs and shoves his hands down the pockets of his varsity jacket, he really wants that fucking smoke.

“Just having fun,” he mutters, not even sure if Sean can hear him, “what’s wrong with fun?”

“You’re new,” Sam claps a hand on Sean’s shoulder, “but you gotta understand, Ian and Milkovich have been getting each other into trouble since day one and it’s just a fact of life around here, it’s just the way it is. No reason.”

“Fuck reason,” Ian says and frowns when Sean just shakes his head like he thinks the whole thing is stupid, “Mickey’s a dick, he doesn’t need a reason.”

“Bet he’d say the same,” Mandy cuts in, but she looks more amused than pissed as she walks up to their group, “and he’s got _some_ reason.”

Ian says nothing, but he gives Mandy a look he hopes she interprets as ‘shut the fuck up’. She’s kind of a bitch, but she’s also Ian’s best friend and he really thinks that should count for something.

Mandy rolls her eyes and throws up her hands.

“You’re both idiots and equally to blame, far as I’m concerned,” she says before raising a pointed eyebrow at Ian, “but somehow it’s always him getting in trouble over it, isn’t it?”

Ian opens his mouth to defend himself, frowning when he realizes that he doesn’t have anything he can say to that. It’s true that Mickey keeps taking the brunt of the punishment doled out by the school after their many and frequent pranks, but he’s always dismissed it as Mickey sucking at covering his tracks. And anyway, not like Mickey ever cared if he got in trouble or not.

“There he is!” Sam suddenly hoots, saving Ian from thinking any deeper on the inner workings of his sworn enemy.

Speaking of, Mickey swaggers down the steps and heads straight for them, nodding at Ian like a challenge.

“Got people doing the dirty work for you now, Gallagher?” he sneers, pointing dismissively at Sam and Chris. “Guessing Dumb and Dumber here gotta be your new puppets.”

“Would’ve asked you the same thing,” Ian throws back with a smirk, “but I don’t think you needed any help finding all that porn to stuff in my locker.”

“What’s that?” Mickey grins and touches his mouth before gesturing at Ian. “I’m sorry, is that supposed to insult me somehow?”

Ian shrugs. “I try.”

“Well, try harder,” Mickey gets something dangerous in his eyes, “not gonna go easy on you next time, this little stunt of yours almost got me fucking expelled.”

Feeling a twinge of regret, Ian is drawing a complete blank. He’s used to dealing with Mickey’s trash-talk, but this is not something he’s had a lot of experience with before. He didn’t think Mickey cared about that shit.

“So what?” Sam laughs, fucking _laughs_ , and Ian feels even worse for basically just thinking the same thing. “Why do you care? Not like it’d make much of a difference.”

Ian can tell Mickey’s two seconds away from launching himself into a fight, head first and fists flying – never-fucking-mind the fact that he’s one against four. In theory. Ian is also pretty sure that he’s likely to get his ass beat if he ever tried to lay a hand on Mickey, even if only to try and calm him down. He’s got a better chance at getting Sam to step down, and a much better chance at winning if Sam starts throwing punches.

“Hey,” he says, stepping in between them and turning his back to Mickey as he walks up to Sam, getting up in his space, “we’re still on school grounds, man, calm the fuck down.”

“Listen to your puppet-master,” Mickey taunts behind him, but Ian can hear he’s stepped down and backed away so he still considers it a win. “Maybe he’ll give you a treat if you’re good.”

“Just leave, Mickey,” Ian sighs and turns around to see Mickey walking away, casually giving them the finger over his shoulder, “and _try_ to not get arrested on your way home.”

“Fuck you,” Mandy sighs, but steps up to Ian so she can kiss him on the cheek before jogging after her brother.

 

 

**Thirsty dog**

 

Smashing the buttons on his controller, Mickey kills another couple of guys before pressing pause. He takes the slightly bent cigarette from his lips and taps off some of the ash so he can stick it right back and resume the game.

“What have I said about smoking in the house?” his mom yells from the kitchen.

“Bitch please,” Mickey mutters, all his fucking life he’s grown up thinking fresh air and smoke were the same damn thing. Like he’s gonna up and change now just ‘cause she’s on some short-lived health-kick.

“Mickey, have you seen my-”

“Does it fucking look like I have?” Mickey bites out and groans when his character dies. He slumps back on the couch and glares up at Mandy. She’s dressed even sluttier than usual, eyes lined with some smudged smokey shit making it look like she’s already been grinding for hours.

“Where the fuck you going?”

“Sam’s party,” she says and smiles like she’s expecting a fucking standing O.

“Why?” Mickey almost chokes on the smoke, blowing it out his nose and staring up at his sister.

“‘Cause it’s a party,” Mandy rolls her eyes, combing her hands through her hair and tying it back as she speaks, “‘cause I wanna dance and get smashed, you wanna come?”

Mickey scoffs and turns back to the TV, starting a new game.

“Don’t fucking think so.”

“Have you seen my Docs?” she asks again, this time making it all the way to the end of the question. “I know you use them sometimes.”

Mickey scowls at the screen. “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Bitch, like we got the same size shoes!”

“Mickey!” their mom yells from the kitchen. “Watch how you talk to your sister!”

“Ain’t got your fucking shoes,” Mickey reiterates, lowering his voice a little so only Mandy can hear it this time, “ _dickbreath_.”

“Assface.”

“If you really have to poison yourself,” his mom keeps nagging, stepping into the living room like it’s somehow gonna make Mickey listen better and do what she says, “why don’t you go outside and clean out the gutters like I’ve asked you again and again, hm?”

“Ma, I’m busy!” he complains, smashing the buttons even harder, trying to stay alive as he takes the cigarette and blindly reaches over to stub it out in the ashtray. Maybe that’ll get her off his back for a second.

Mistake, it only got her on to the next thing.

“You’ve been playing that stupid game all day,” she says and steps in between him and the TV, blocking his view.

“Ma, the fuck!” he says and throws the controller down on the dirty carpet when he hears his character being brutally murdered in the distance.

“I’m going out!” Mandy yells through the house, zooming past the living room and out the door before their mom’s got the chance to give her a curfew or ask any questions.

Only the two of them left in the house, Mickey takes a second to weigh his options. Unsurprisingly, dancing and getting smashed doesn’t sound so bad anymore, considering. Cut out the dancing and what’s left is almost exactly like his idea of a perfect evening.

Getting smashed on that fucking prick Sam’s booze doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world, either. Maybe Gallagher’s gonna be there too, and give Mickey the perfect opportunity to get back at him for setting him up with the firecrackers.

“I’m gonna go with her,” Mickey excuses himself in a mutter and ignores his mother’s exasperated sigh as he gets up and disappears into his room to throw on some pants. 

Looking at himself in the mirror, he thinks for a second that maybe he should shave off the scruff and change out of the dirty, sleeveless tee he’s been walking around in all day, but then decides that none of that shit matters. He’s not going to this party to impress anyone, he just wants to be somewhere that isn’t _here_ and drink whatever until he feels like someone who isn’t him. Not like he needs to dress up for that.

Grabbing his jacket he’s about to leave the house when he sees his mom sitting on the couch, staring at the TV asking her if she wants to start a new game.

“Hey mom,” he says and swallows uncomfortably, frowning at himself when she turns around and looks at him, “I’ma clean out the gutters tomorrow, alright? Don’t worry about it.”

She looks tired, but she smiles and nods at him before he leaves.

Fuller’s house is overflowing with drunk teenagers when he gets there, so he immediately gives up on any hope he might have had to find Mandy in there. Instead he goes hunting for something to drink, and the second he’s got a shot in his belly and a beer in his hand he sets his sights for a secluded location to while away the rest of the night.

Stumbling out on the back porch, he thinks he’s found just the spot until he hears the unmistakable smacking of lips on lips.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters to himself and is about to pipe up and make himself known when he hears a low moan and a voice he would recognize anywhere.

“Feel so good,” Ian pants like a fucking dog.

“Want you,” a second voice, Mickey presumes it’s that meat-headed jock always trailing behind Gallagher at school, fucking hearts in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck- me too.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you sure you’re ready? I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, Ian.”

“I’m sure, I’m ready.”

Mickey thinks he might just barf there and then – and hopefully put a spin on the After School Special going on out here while he’s at it – when the door flies open and a girl runs past both Mickey and the lovebirds, going straight for the railing and bending herself over it.

“I was gonna do that,” he complains when she promptly throws up all over the rose bushes.

“There you are!”

A very squeaky and barely dressed second girl comes out the wide open door, laughing and chatting as she grabs Gallagher and his boy-toy by the hand and drags them back inside the house.

 

 

**That’s what I like**

 

Compared to the dark and cold calm out back, the house seems almost unbearably hot and busy, the music pounding and sweaty bodies moving around them as Ian tightens his grip on Sean’s hand and follows his lead through room after room.

He’s nervous, but excited to get this over and done with. He should have a long time ago already, he feels like a freak for having waited this long. He hopes Sean won’t laugh at him for not knowing what the fuck to do, he knows he won’t. Sean is nice. And he’s waited this long, months, and never once asked for more than Ian was willing to give.

It’s stupid to hesitate.

Ian feels his skin crawl with excitement when Sean stops pulling on his hand and suddenly appears in front of him again, pressing up against him and bending down a little to get his lips close to Ian’s ear.

“I’m gonna find us a room,” he says, “wait here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Nodding, Ian doesn’t get the chance to say anything before Sean lets go of his hand and disappears in the crowd.

“Fuck,” he mutters and looks around the room. He really needs to piss. 

If he finds a bathroom right away, maybe he can relieve himself and come back to this spot before Sean’s had the time to return. It’s better than having to go for a fucking pee-break in the middle of humping later, anyway.

Pushing through the crowd, he finds the line first, but doesn’t realize it’s a line until he sees the locked bathroom door. He’s gonna have to wait for like half an hour if he wants to get in there.

He’s considering going out back and adding insult to injury by pissing on the rose bushes, when he sees the roped off staircase leading to the second floor of the house. Obviously he’s not supposed to go up there, but on the other hand… nature calls, and the idea of pissing off Sam by pissing in one of the upstairs ensuites isn’t exactly a deterrent. 

Making sure no one’s looking, Ian quickly sneaks under the rope and skulks up the stairs, feeling his way through the dark until he finds a door.

And it just happens to lead to a bathroom, the sharp tungsten light blinking when he finds the switch. Stepping inside he notices the handwritten note stuck to the door, it says ‘lock broken, don’t close’, so he carefully leaves it open by a couple of inches before he goes about his business.

Washing his hands, he stares at himself in the mirror until he stops looking like a fucking nervous virgin. Furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a stern line… too much, maybe. More like he’s about to go fight someone than have sex for the first time.

He’s almost wishing he was about to fight someone, at least he’s done _that_ before and has some chance to anticipate what the outcome might be. 

Turning on the tap he bends down and fills his cupped hands with cold water, splashing it all over his face.

He rubs at his still burning cheeks for a second before gripping the edge of the sink and once again meeting his own eyes in the mirror. 

“Get a fucking grip,” he mutters at himself, scowling at the uncomfortable churning in his stomach, “just do it.”

He almost jumps out of his own skin when the door is slammed shut and he sees Mickey rushing past behind him.

“Get the fuck outta here, Shia LaBeouf,” Mickey tells him, already positioning himself in front of the toilet and unzipping his pants before Ian’s properly registered his presence.

Ian stares at him for a second, eyes widening when he finally remembers the damn note on the door.

“Fuck!” he yelps, before rushing over to it and pulling at the handle. It rattles and slips around in his wet hands, but the damn door doesn’t move an inch. “Shit, fuck!”

Desperate, he tries to wedge in his fingertips between the door and the jamb and pry the thing open. It feels like he’s trying to break through a solid wall with a door painted on it.

“Ey!” Mickey tries to get his attention. “The fuck are you still in here for, you fuckin’ perv.”

“You closed the door,” Ian bites out through gritted teeth, taking a step back to uselessly survey the situation and maybe find some way to open the thing without a working handle.

“So what?” Mickey’s pants are zipped back up when he steps up next to Ian, scowling at him and then at the door.

“So it’s fucking broken is _what_ , we’re stuck here thanks to you!” Ian spits, gesturing at the door and scoffing when Mickey bustles him out of the way to grab at the handle and try it out himself, like Ian would be standing there lying about it. “I told you it’s broken, it won’t open!”

“Alright, Jesus!” Mickey takes a step back as well, rubbing at his mouth as he looks up at the door. “Stand back.”

 

 

**I miss you**

 

Mickey’s shoulder hurts like a motherfucker. Glancing at Ian he tries to discreetly rub at the dull pain without him noticing. He’s gonna bruise up real good tomorrow, he can tell.

Ian is sitting in the bathtub, his lanky legs stretched out with his feet on the wall and eyes on the ceiling. He’s been ignoring Mickey for the last ten minutes, ever since Mickey gave up on trying to force the door open and Ian gave up on trying to make himself heard over the music and ruckus downstairs.

For all they know they’re gonna be stuck in here all night.

“Fuck it,” Mickey mutters and gets up off the floor, raising his eyebrows when Ian finally looks at him again, “I still gotta piss, man.”

Ian groans and makes a face, before grabbing the shower curtain and awkwardly pulling at it to create some kind of barrier between them.

Scoffing, Mickey shakes his head and turns his back on him, unzipping and unceremoniously whipping out his dick so he can finally go about his long overdue business and relieve himself.

Shaking himself off, he throws a quick glance over his shoulder at the quietly wafting shower curtain.

“Christ, Gallagher,” he says and smirks as he’s flushing the toilet and steps over to wash his hands in the sink, “you’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

“Excuse me for not wanting to hang around while you’re taking a piss, Mickey,” Ian snarks from behind the curtain, “you want me holding your dick for you next time?”

“Like there’s gonna be a next time,” Mickey sighs and flips down the lid so he can sit down on the toilet, “stuck up here with no fucking booze.”

He hears Ian mutter something but can’t quite make it out. It’s probably something flattering and sweet about yours truly.

“And that’s not what I’m talking about,” Mickey continues. He knows he probably shouldn’t poke the six foot proverbial hornet’s nest behind the curtain right now, but he can’t help himself. He was going crazy sitting around in silence.

Biting his lip he takes Ian’s sullen silence as a go-ahead to speak his mind.

“I’m talking about this virgin Mary schtick you got going with Beefcake downstairs,” he says and smirks when he hears Ian shift slightly in the tub, “what’s that about, huh? He got a taste for innocent and pure or something, so you gotta lie to get your way with him?”

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey,” Ian sighs. Disappointing, but at least he’s talking.

“Nah,” Mickey clicks his tongue and leans back on the uncomfortable porcelain seat. “I don’t think I will, thanks.”

“Jesus, kill me now.”

“You should thank me,” Mickey decides, “I probably saved you from a really disappointing five minutes. He’s gotta be compensating for _something_ looking like that, right?”

“My first time,” Ian mutters, like he isn’t even talking to Mickey anymore, “and instead I’m stuck here with you, just my fucking luck.”

Mickey frowns at the sincere disappointment in Ian’s voice. “Bullshit it’s your first time.”

“Isn’t now,” Ian mutters bitterly before raising his voice some, “the fuck do you know about it anyway?”

“Only know what I’ve heard,” Mickey shrugs and frowns when Ian bites out a curse, “what about Donkey Dick, whole school knows about you two doin’ it last year.”

“Fucking Roger Spikey,” Ian sighs, and he sounds genuinely disappointed, “you know-, somehow I never thought _you’d_ believe I fucked Roger Spikey at the winter dance just ‘cause he said so. He’s like, a pathological liar and you’ve always hated his guts.”

Mickey looks down at his hands, suddenly feeling kind of ashamed. He never even questioned it, so ready to believe any little nasty rumor he picked up about Ian’s new life.

“Thanks a lot,” Ian mutters, before suddenly getting up on his feet. Shoving the curtain aside, he ignores Mickey completely as he walks over to the door and pounds his fist against it. 

“Hey! Anyone! We’re up here!”

The whole thing is giving Mickey a fucking headache.

“Cut that shit out, ain’t nobody gonna hear you,” he complains, a little surprised when it actually works. Ian turns around and glares at him.

“Yeah, thanks to you,” he says and slumps back against the door, sliding down to sit on the cold marble floor. “You’re so fucking stupid, Mickey, learn how to fucking read, would you!”

“Fuck you,” Mickey sneers, “what were you doing up here anyway, if this is supposed to be the big night you finally become a woman?”

Ian just flips him off, lips pressed together into a thin line as he shakes his head.

“And seriously, that guy?” Mickey goes on. “Guy’s got the personality of a fucking fruit fly, Ian, he plays fucking football and you call me stupid? Holy shit.”

“He’s nice, alright?” Ian seriously seems intent on defending this guy. “He’s nice, and he’s into me, and in case you hadn’t noticed he also happens to be hot as fuck. I don’t know what you’re into these days, but if your spank bank material is anything to go by I guess a pumped up double D is all a girl needs to meet your standards.”

Mickey grins, wide and joyless, and hums when Ian almost flinches and looks away.

“That’s right,” he says, “you’re a real genius, ain’t you? Got me all figured out.”

Ian sighs and closes his eyes, his head hitting against the door with a dull thump.

“I’m so sick of this,” he mumbles, opening his eyes and staring at something in the ceiling, “why do you gotta be such a fucking asshole all the time?”

“Me?” Mickey sputters, feeling his shackles rising again. “You’re the one who keeps getting in my fucking face, man, _you’re_ the one calling me stupid and getting me in trouble. You know how many hours of detention I’ve had to sit through over the last three years ’cause of you?”

Ian looks at him now, something new and curious in his thoughtful frown, and it makes Mickey feel strangely self-conscious. 

Mickey huffs and rubs at his nose, and very pointedly doesn’t look at Ian. “And _I’m_ the asshole?”

Ian is quiet for an unnervingly long time, and when Mickey risks a quick glance in his direction he’s still staring intently at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ian shakes his head, but then seems to immediately change his mind, “Mandy said… I didn’t know you gave a shit about that stuff.”

“What?” Mickey folds his arms across his chest. “About not rotting away in detention my whole life? About getting out? Making something of myself?”

“I didn’t know,” Ian says again and smiles when Mickey huffs, “hey, you gotta admit you’ve done a good job making it look like you don’t give a shit.”

Mickey really tries to keep from smiling, bending his head and probably failing hard. “Maybe.”

“And it’s not like I’m responsible for _all_ the times you’ve been in detention, is it?” Ian asks, quirking an eyebrow when Mickey tries to glare at him. “Know for a fact that you and your friends have been busted smoking weed behind the gym more than once last year.”

“Like you don’t smoke that shit too!” Mickey argues, gesturing at Ian’s amused face. “Hell, your smartass brother was one of my top customers before he fucked off to college. They target me ‘cause I’m a Milkovich and they wanna make my life as hard as fucking possible while they still can.”

“Sure,” Ian grins and leans his head back against the door, eyes half-lidded but still stuck on Mickey. “I also do this thing where I try not getting high on school grounds, during school hours. It helps.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but when it only makes Ian smile wider he can’t help it, he chuckles and rubs self-consciously at his forehead. 

“Guess you’re right after all, huh?” he says and meets Ian’s eyes again. “Pretty fucking stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” Ian says, smile dropping when he shakes his head, “I shouldn’t have said that, I know you’re not stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

It’s pathetic, but it’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to Mickey in a good long while.

“I’m looking at colleges,” he blurts out before he’s had time to change his mind, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when Ian doesn’t immediately laugh at him. Instead, his whole face lights back up in a genuine smile.

“Yeah?” he says and nods like he’s prompting Mickey to tell him more. “SAIC?”

“Shit, no,” Mickey all but fucking blushes at the thought, he really hadn’t expected Ian to remember his old dream of one day going to art school, “wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Why not?”

Mickey stares at Ian’s genuinely curious face, looking long and hard for any trace of malice before he decides to try and answer.

“Like they’d want me,” he says and shrugs, embarrassed when he managed to somehow blurt out the core of his problem. He could have said anything, like the School of the Art Institute are a bunch of stuck-up snobs and Mickey would rather shoot himself in the head than spend a day in their hallowed halls. But there it is, instead – the truth.

They wouldn’t want him, so why even try?

“Why not?” Ian asks again, just as genuinely as before. “You still draw, right?”

Mickey shrugs uncomfortably.

“Didn’t for a while,” he says, “after dad died.”

Ian blinks and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, before snapping it shut just as quick. Mickey looks at him until he’s got his shit together and decides to say what’s on his mind.

“I heard about it when it happened,” he says and winces apologetically, “was it really bad?”

“Sure, whatever,” Mickey sighs and looks away, disappointment pooling in his gut. It’d been really fucking bad. His old man had died in prison leaving behind nothing but debt and a bad name, and his older brothers left him and Mandy to deal with their mom in the confusing wake of Terry’s death. She’d been in and out of rehab at the time, something Ian must have known as well as anyone.

And fucking _everyone_ knew, but Mickey never asked anyone for shit. They could take care of themselves just fine, that’s what Milkoviches do, but it still managed to hurt like fuck that Ian and his family never even tried to help.

“Good fucking riddance, though,” he concludes, clearing his throat, “we’re better off without him looming over us, prison or no. Mom’s been clean for over six months now, too, so guess that’s something.”

“It’s great,” Ian whispers, “Mick, I-”

“Forget it,” Mickey mutters and waves him off, “I don’t give a shit.”

Ian seems to swallow whatever it was he wanted to say, eyes shiny for a second as he nods.

“What about you?” Mickey decides to change the subject. “You still plan on goin’ army strong?”

“Nah,” Ian says and bows his head, absently picking at his nails.

“Nah?” Mickey repeats incredulously, “you gotta be fucking kidding me, right? You’ve wanted that shit since you were fucking five years old.”

“I know,” Ian shrugs noncommittally and then sighs, rubbing a hand over his bent neck. “West Point turned me down.”

“So?” Mickey recoils at Ian’s defeated tone. “You’re a Junior, apply again next year!”

“You don’t get it,” Ian mutters and makes a face when Mickey holds up his hands in an impatient gesture for him to go ahead and explain it, then. “I wanna be an officer, and they’re not looking for guys who can run a six minute mile or hit a freckle from two-hundred yards. Sure I can apply, but I’m not what they’re looking for.”

“Shit,” Mickey doesn’t know what to say, but tries anyway, “fuck ‘em, right? Try again anyway. And if they don’t want you maybe it wouldn’t be so fucking bad to have a backup plan, huh? Can think of plenty of ways to play hero right here, without going off and gettin’ blown up in some Stan somewhere.”

“Stan?” Ian huffs and looks like he’s considering taking back the things he said before about Mickey not being stupid. But he’s kinda smiling, so Mickey’s gonna take it as a win.

“Whatever,” Mickey waves off his complaint, “just trying to put a positive spin on your academic failure, fuck.”

“Thanks,” Ian says and smiles at him again. 

It’s like Mickey’s been in a fucking cave for years, and now the sun is rising over the horizon. Carefully testing and shining its light on him little by little. He’s not certain when he got so fucking disgustingly dramatic about it, but he knows for sure now that he’s missed this more than he’d ever been willing to admit, even to himself.

He’s missed talking to Ian, he’s missed just seeing him and being around him. But it’s different now though, because behind every good feeling being stirred up lies a question Mickey still doesn’t know the answer to.

“What happened?” Ian echoes his exact thoughts, back to staring up at the ceiling when Mickey looks at him. “How did we get like this?”

Frowning, Mickey feels himself getting worked up again.

“You know why,” he says and stands up so he can pace around the small room, stopping as far away from Ian as he can. “It’s not some big fucking mystery, Ian.”

When Ian doesn’t say anything, Mickey lets out a frustrated noise and decides to just let him have it. Not like it’s gonna make things worse, at this point.

“You ditched me, no two ways about it,” he says and holds up a hand when Ian looks like he wants to protest, “you got yourself a new set of Barbie friends and replaced me, turning into just another jock douchebag I don’t even fucking recognize anymore.”

“Mick,” Ian says with a huff, holding out his arms in a hapless shrug, “we met in little league! I was always into sports!”

“Whatever,” Mickey sneers.

“And what about you,” Ian fucking dares to try and turn this bitch around and put some of the blame on Mickey, “you started hanging out behind the gym, getting high and never fucking inviting me, not once!”

It’s almost enough to distract him for a second, but then Mickey’s anger doubles back in full force.

“That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it,” he spits, “you were the one who stopped coming around my house after school when I started high school, and then you were the one who ignored me when you started your freshman year, when I thought maybe you’d remember your fucking best friend when you saw me every day again, but no. What a bitch-ass sucker I was, thinking you might.”

“Mick,” Ian tries, but doesn’t seem to know what to say after that.

Mickey wipes at his nose and hates himself a little for not ever fucking knowing how to shut up. “Never even fucking looked at me unless I got you riled up, picking fights and getting in trouble.”

“Is that why?”

“Fuck you that’s why,” Mickey complains, “your dumb face does nothing but piss me the fuck off these days, that’s why.”

“Mickey.”

“Yeah okay, whatever,” Mickey turns his back to Ian and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes tries to stave off the fucking tears he can feel prickling behind his skin, “excuse me for having fucking feelings.”

“I never meant to-,” Ian starts, and when Mickey turns around he’s standing up, looking at him with his big fucking eyes.

“Alright, calm down,” Mickey tells himself as much as he’s telling Ian, “shit happens, right? People grow up, that’s the whole fucking point. I’m the fucked for life kid all the other kids are told to stay away from, I got the message. My fault for believing you when you said we were gonna be best friends forever, no such fucking thing, right?”

Ian shakes his head, neck bent and his dumb fringe covering his eyes as he leans back against the door.

“You got it all wrong.”

“Then by all means,” Mickey throws out his hands, “fucking enlighten me.”

Ian groans and pulls a hand over his eyes. “You know why, don’t make me say it, asshole.”

“Would I be standin’ here,” Mickey huffs, gesturing at the bathroom, “bitching like some girl about it if I knew why?” 

“I tried to kiss you,” Ian more or less cuts him off, dropping his hand and looking up at Mickey again with tired eyes. “I tried to kiss you and you pushed me into a bush.”

“Yeah,” Mickey looks around the room, starting to feel like he should expect candid cameras popping up there, there! And there! “And then you said it was fine, everything was fine!”

“It wasn’t fine,” Ian drops his head back against the door and looks up at the ceiling, “I tried not to think about it but like… I knew. I knew if you found out how I really felt you’d never talk to me again. Guess I just did the work for you.”

Mickey tries to process what Ian’s telling him, but it’s a whole lot. And he’s pretty certain that most of it is incredibly stupid.

“Fuck you for putting that shit on me,” he says, latching on to the first stupid thing he can untangle from the whole mess, “tryna make this my fault when I didn’t even know what was going on.”

“I know,” Ian nods, “I didn’t mean-”

“How did you feel?” Mickey interrupts him, sucking in a quick breath when it gets Ian to look at him again.

Then he’s moving closer, until he’s so close Mickey thinks he could count all of the individual freckles scattered across Ian’s face if he hadn’t been so busy staring up into his eyes. And trying to remember how to breathe.

He feels himself fucking shudder when Ian gently puts a hand to the side of his neck and slowly brings it up his cheek.

“Never stopped,” he says.

 

 

**Hit & run**

 

Mickey’s got something wild in his eyes, this up close, and Ian could swear he sees him flinch when his hand moves over the skin of his neck. He looks terrified, and Ian feels bad.

For himself too, a little bit, but mostly for doing this to Mickey again. It took Ian a long time to get over it last time, but he really thought he was over it. All it took was one hour with this guy in close quarters, and it all came crashing back with a fucking vengeance. It’s overwhelming and not a little confusing.

He knows one thing for sure, though, and that’s that he needs to deal with it better this time.

Sighing he lets his hand drop and takes a couple of steps back again, shoving his hands down the pockets of his jacket to keep them in check.

“I miss you,” he says, and glances back up at Mickey to make sure that he’s more comfortable now, with Ian at a safe distance, “maybe we could try and be friends again.”

Mickey looks annoyed, but Ian thinks he knows the other boy’s deep set scowl as something that could mean a great many things.

It still makes him nervous, and he’s keenly aware of that fact that he doesn’t know Mickey as well as he used to. 

“I mean,” he continues, “if you want.”

He thinks Mickey is about to say something when the door flies open, crashing into the side of the bathtub.

“Here he is!” Jess shouts and laughs. “Found him!”

“Ian!”

Ian sighs and closes his eyes for a second, before he turns around in time to see Sean stepping through the door.

“Hey,” Ian says and smiles weakly at his boyfriend’s concerned face, “door’s broken, we’ve been stuck for a while.”

“Yeah,” Sean chuckles and steps up close, putting a hand on Ian’s arm, “been looking for you for over an hour, you okay?”

Ian doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick to Mickey when he asks, and he can bet Mickey doesn’t miss it either.

“Yeah,” Ian sighs, squeezing his eyes shut when Mickey shoves past them and practically runs out the open door. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Sean says and nods, “you wanna go back to the party?”

“No, I’m-,” Ian can’t quite look at his boyfriend, he feels like he’s done something he shouldn’t have. Nothing happened with Mickey, but it sure would have if Mickey had been into it at all. Ian wouldn’t have hesitated for a second, maybe never even thought about his relationship with Sean. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Think I just wanna go home.”

They descend the stairs to a room-full of laughing people, gleefully hooting and hollering with Sam square in the middle, holding court.

“There you have it!” he says throwing his arms up in victory. “White trash piece of shit’s got no place here anyway, and if he’s anything like his parents he’s gonna end up in prison or with a needle in his arm before we’ve even had our first reunion!”

“Ian,” Sean says behinds him, but Ian doesn’t even hear the warning in his voice. He sees red, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s shoved his way through the crowd and grabbed Sam by the ears, keeping him still as he takes aim and then head-butts him right in the nose.

“What the fuck!”

“Ian, get off him!”

“Stop!”

At some point, Ian’s fists stop connecting with things, and he’s dragged kicking and shouting out on the street. Sean is pushing him forward, and Ian almost falls on his ass before regaining his balance and turning around to glare at his boyfriend.

“You need to calm down,” Sean says, and Ian winces at the disappointment in his voice, “you’re the team captain, Ian, you’re supposed to be a good example, always! You can’t go around getting into fights like this, over nothing.”

Ian spits and tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Feeling with his fingertips for the sore split in his lip, he doesn’t even try to think of something to say. To defend himself or make Sean understand.

If he doesn’t get it now, he probably won’t get it if Ian starts yelling at him about South Side rules and what happens to shit-taking pricks with no sense of self-preservation. He’s also not sure how he’s supposed to explain why he’s so ready to defend a guy he’s pretended to hate for as long as Sean and him have known each other.

So he leaves.

 

 

**Good riddance (time of your life)**

 

Mickey bites out a curse as his hand catches on something sharp, _again_ , and a big chunk of leaves and dirt almost hits him in the face going down. The rickety old piece of shit ladder he’s standing on wobbles menacingly and he stands stock still until it calms the fuck down again.

He can think of a thousand things he’d rather do on a Sunday than clear out the gutters, but he also suspects that he’d probably just smoke pot in bed and cry all day if left to his own devices. Besides, he did promise his mom to do it, and she is trying. Won’t hurt him to try, too.

“Hey assface!”

Mickey looks down at the porch below and sees Mandy stepping outside, still in her pyjamas and clutching a cup of steaming coffee in her hands as she sits down on the steps.

“You’re up early,” she says, grinning up at him through her dark shades.

“Bitch, it’s like one in the afternoon,” Mickey huffs and starts climbing back down the ladder, “when did you get back last night?”

“Don’t know,” Mandy groans and blows on her coffee, holding it close to her face, “the sun was up?”

Mickey grins and steps down on the ground, squinting up at the half-assed job he’s not even halfway done doing.

“You know Keith?” Mandy asks and shows her teeth in a salacious grin when Mickey shrugs and says ‘sure’. “Got him to go down on me last night, he’s got a skilled tongue.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Mickey groans and turns away so he won’t have to look at her, “don’t wanna know that shit!”

“You left early,” she ignores his trauma, “you missed all the action.”

“No shit,” Mickey mutters and kicks at the ladder, “kinda the point of leaving.”

“Remember that time we stayed with Ian?” Mandy asks, out of the fucking blue. Mickey stares at her for a second before replying.

“What about it?”

She shrugs and looks down the street. “Still think about it, sometimes. It was nice. I remember their house like some kinda fairytale after spending the night in that horrible waiting room at the ER.”

It’d taken their mom a good while to get her custody back after that one, and Fiona had gone out of her way to arrange it so Mickey and Mandy could stay together, and stay with them, until they could go home.

He’d slept on a mattress on the floor next to Ian’s bed for a couple of weeks. He remembers feeling really fucking guilty. His mom had almost died, and he couldn’t stop thinking he was the happiest he’d ever been.

“The fuck are we talking about this?” he asks and picks up the ladder, moving it a few feet down the house.

“ _We’re_ not talking about shit, Mickey,” Mandy points out with a teasing grin, “but _I’m_ talking about Ian, and how he didn’t even fucking notice I existed until you and him stopped being friends.”

“Yeah, well,” Mickey says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, “can’t imagine he was happy with the downgrade.”

Mandy gives him the finger, and then gestures at him to let her have a turn.

“He never told me why you guys stopped hanging out,” she says and takes the cigarette when he hands it over, “and believe me I’ve tried to pry it outta him for years.”

Mickey says nothing, hoping she’ll get to the point faster if he stops resisting.

“You know,” she says and looks up at him, her no doubt bloodshot eyes hidden behind the shades, “it’s okay for you to want things.”

His whole body yelling at him to curse and make fun of her, Mickey swallows the insult on the tip of his tongue and tries to think of something to say. He thinks he’s probably never had a real conversation with his sister before, and it’s uncomfortable as fuck. But maybe worth a shot.

“Thinking of going to college next year,” he says, and finds that it’s almost _easy_ to say it this time, “art school, maybe.”

“You’re so fucking gay,” Mandy snorts. But her smile is brilliant when she hands him back his cigarette, and she looks _proud_.

 

 

**The same boy you’ve always known**

 

Ian sits on his bed, the afternoon sun warm on his back through the window behind him. He hears his family bustling around downstairs and he thinks he probably should join them, get his mind off things, but in the end he really just wants to be left alone with his thoughts today.

He’s got an envelope in his hands. It’s bent and wrinkled from the box of assorted crap he keeps under his bed, and the name printed in pencil on the front is faded and smudged.

“Hey dude,” Lip greets him, coming in the room and closing the door behind him again, “what’s up?”

“Hey, Lip,” Ian says and smiles, wincing when it almost splits his lip back open, “didn’t know you were coming home today.”

“Finished my paper early and figured I’d come home and check on my baby brother,” Lip says and sits down next to him, affectionately ruffling a hand through Ian’s head.

“Great,” Ian huffs, “they’re both downstairs.”

Lip pushes at his head and smiles when Ian chuckles and ducks out of the way.

“You getting in fights now?” he asks, gesturing at his own face before lighting up a joint.

“Don’t worry,” Ian says and gratefully accepts the joint when Lip hands it over, “Fiona’s already ripped me a new one over it.”

Lip shrugs and slowly lets out the smoke he’s been holding in his lungs. “As long as you’re smart about it. How’s the other guy?”

Ian shakes his head and hands the joint back. “Don’t know.”

Lip hums, but seems content with the answer. Ian lets himself be enveloped by the warm smoke spreading through his body as he turns the letter over in his hand, swiping the pad of his thumb over Mickey’s name.

“What’s that?” Lip asks, breaking him out of his bubble. 

“Nothing,” Ian drops the letter back into the box and shoves it back under the bed with his foot. Sighing he looks at his brother for a moment, considering telling him everything and as usual landing somewhere in the middle. “I tried to kiss Mickey again.”

Lip almost chokes on the smoke, stifling a cough and narrowing his eyes as he looks at Ian.

“You’re fucking hopeless,” he says with a fond smirk, “did it work this time?”

Ian shakes his head.

“Well,” Lip clicks his tongue and hands over the joint again, “hate to say it, but maybe take a fucking hint?”

“Felt different this time,” Ian says, trying to remember the exact look Mickey gave him as he moved in close and tried to find a sign to lean down and kiss him, “don’t know… maybe he wanted me to make a move.”

“Or maybe you’ve been hung up on this dude for years,” Lip counters, “and you’re thinking with your dick.”

Ian makes a face and shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue. It was his choice not to tell Mickey the truth when he realized that he was falling in love, and it would only cause Mickey more stress if he tried to explain and excuse his decision to cut and run after all this time.

He’s a coward, and he deserves having Mickey hate him. He can’t change that now.

 

 

**Please please please let me get what I want**

 

It’s lunch on Monday when Mickey sees him again, standing on the other side of the cafeteria with his insufferable group of friends. Mickey stares at him, not giving a shit what people might think of it, and scowls at the bruises and cuts on his face.

It makes him want to crack some skulls.

Instead he grabs his lunch and takes it outside, escaping in under the bleachers like he always does. Fucking coward.

Karen is talking about the homecoming dance or some shit when Mickey snaps and can’t stop the question from falling out.

“What happened to Gallagher?”

Karen stops mid-sentence and stares at him.

“You don’t know?” she asks, the corners of her mouth twitching to smile when Mickey only barely refrains from yelling at her to stop asking stupid fucking questions and get to the point. “I wasn’t there, but apparently he kicked Sam’s ass at his party on Saturday.”

“Why?”

Karen shrugs. “From what I heard he was talking shit about you, and Ian just lost it. Had to be dragged out of the house by like three people.”

Mickey thinks of the taunting words Sam yelled after him as he ran away from Ian and his boyfriend, tail between his legs. He knows for a fact that he never would’ve let that shit slide if he heard someone talking about Ian that way, doesn’t matter how long it’s been since they last called each other friends, or how much pain they’ve caused each other since. 

Maybe it isn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that Ian feels the same way, even after everything.

“You talked to him at the party, didn’t you?” Karen asks, and doesn’t back down when Mickey glares at her. “Did he tell you what you wanted to know?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey grumbles and looks away. He’s never talked to Karen about this for a reason, he isn’t looking to start now.

“Seriously?” Karen laughs. “Mickey, we’ve been hanging out like every day for three years, I’d have to be fucking blind not to see how you feel about that guy.”

“Yeah? And how do I feel?”

“I think he kinda broke your heart,” she says, “and I think you still love him, as a friend or something else, I don’t know. I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Mickey mutters and rubs his hands over his face, wishing he’d called in sick today and stayed in bed.

“But I’m pretty sure you’re head over heels in love with him.”

Mickey stays in the dark of his hands and waits, he waits for the panic to grip his heart and take over. Like it did when he was thirteen and Ian tried to kiss him. Like it did every time he recalled Ian’s smile and voice and hands, casually finding little ways of touching him whatever they were doing. Like it did on Saturday, Ian stepping in close and silently asking if Mickey wanted it too.

He does, he wants it so bad. And the panic isn’t there.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, letting his hands drop, “he’s with someone else.”

“What?” Karen says and wrinkles her nose in disapproval, and Mickey kinda loves her a little for not making a big deal out of any of this. “You’re seriously gonna let Sean stand in your way?”

Mickey throws up his hands and sits back in his seat. “If that’s who he wants… I’m nothing like that guy.”

“Well,” she tries, “maybe that’s the point.”

“Yo!”

A voice calls out from the side of the bleachers, soon followed by Lip Gallagher.

“Ey, College,” Mickey drawls, “isn’t it kinda creepy for you to prowl around high schoolers like this?”

“Funny,” Lip smirks and nods at Karen, “he’s a funny guy, isn’t he?”

“Should we call security?” Karen suggests, smiling sweetly at her ex.

“Good to see you too, Karen,” Lip says, and sounds weirdly genuine when he does, “just here to get some paperwork done and-, uh, deliver this.”

Pulling out a piece of paper from his back pocket, he throws it in Mickey’s direction. Only failing a little, he manages to catch it and turns it around in his hands with due amount of suspicion.

“This is Ian’s handwriting,” he says, looking down at the sprawling letters spelling out his name.

“Don’t know what it says,” Lip says, waving over his shoulder as he’s already walking away, “but I know it belongs to you.”

Staring at the letter in his hands, Mickey feels Karen pat him on the shoulder.

“What do you wanna do?” she asks, like it’s that fucking easy.

“Want him to know,” Mickey starts, swallowing the end of the sentence.

“Then let’s make sure he knows.” 

 

 

**Rudie can’t fail**

 

Ian looks up at the crowd filling the bleachers, cheering and waving down at the players on the field as they move to take their positions. Squeezing the hard ball in his hand, he quints up at the first row above the dugouts where Sean is taking a seat. He raises a hand in a small wave and Ian waves back, grinning when the rest of his friends notice and start yelling out a cacophony of bad cheers.

Scanning the rest of the crowd, he feels the disappointment like a stone in his gut when he can’t see Mickey anywhere. He hasn’t seen him at all since Saturday, not even across the cafeteria or in the hallways. It’s almost like Mickey’s been avoiding him.

Which is fair enough, even though the thought hurts like hell.

Cringing with premature embarrassment, Ian spots the large group of cheerleaders taking a seat right in his line of sight, taking up a large section of the bleachers and struggling to hide the large squares of cardboard they’ve brought with them.

“Whoo, Ian!” Jess yells when she sees him looking. She stands up and starts giving orders to her squad, and Ian’s wishing the ground would swallow him whole when he realizes that they’re about to do this thing right now.

One by one, the cheerleaders pick up their individual signs and slot them together above their heads to form one giant sign. But it doesn’t say any of the cheesy things Jess has been bugging him about for the past week.

Instead it’s like a whole mural unfolds in front of him, and his heart kinda wants to beat out of his chest when he recognizes the style first, and then the subject.

It’s in Mickey’s familiar hand – his lines broad and sharp and ten times bigger than Ian’s ever seen him draw before – and the image is an almost unreal likeness of the two of them. Kissing. In intimate detail.

Ian has been dreading this moment since Jess first brought it up, but – for some strange reason – seeing a fifteen times fifteen foot doodle of himself sucking face with another dude doesn’t bother him at all. 

The same can’t be said for everyone else. There’s a moment of almost complete silence, and then the whole field erupts with noise. And then above everything, the PA system squeals and complains as it’s being turned on.

 _“How about it, Gallagher?”_ Mickey’s voice booms out across the field, causing Ian to turn around and grin up at the commentator’s booth. _“You wanna cause some more trouble, or you wanna get on me?”_

Looking for the fastest way of getting up the bleachers and getting to Mickey, Ian hasn’t even made it off the field before the commentator’s booth has been stormed by security and Mickey has been hauled off the scene.

 

 

**Can’t hardly wait**

 

The caretaker gives Mickey a trash bag and picker without a word, and then stalks off to leave him to his task. Mickey looks down at all the litter covering the edges of the field and all the way up the bleachers. Did they always leave this much trash behind after games, or did it just seem like an abnormal amount because he was the one who had to clean it up this time?

At least he didn’t get expelled. He probably would have been if he’d gone with his first draft, it’d been a great deal more explicit than the PG version he ended up scaling up over the fifteen individual cardboard signs Karen had helped him steal from the janitor’s closet where Jess had been allowed to store them overnight before the game.

All in all, he would call the operation a success. Except for the small detail that he still hasn’t heard from Ian yet.

And here he is, up at the ass-crack of dawn to atone for his crimes by picking up trash, and quietly talking himself out of all hope.

“Hey.”

He turns around and grins when he sees Ian standing there, hair slightly tousled and eyelids still heavy and tired, like he just rolled out of bed and got here before really waking up properly.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey asks.

Ian holds up the picking tool and trash bag he’s got in his left hand, presenting them as evidence. 

“Detention,” he says, “turned myself in.”

“And they let you?”

Ian shrugs and smirks. “My face was on at least fifty percent of that thing, not like they could deny that I was involved.”

Mickey feels like he should apologize or something. He got so caught up in the idea of making a big, public statement, he didn’t stop and consider what it might say about Ian. Karen didn’t help either, egging him on like the devil on his shoulder.

But also, fuck apologizing. Ian doesn’t seem like he’s upset, and he didn’t have to turn himself in. And if fucking Sean took offense from seeing his boyfriend’s likeness sucking face with another dude, then that’s his fucking problem.

So he asks what he really wants to know, instead. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Haven’t got one,” Ian says and smiles, instantly placating Mickey’s guilty conscience, “ended it a few days ago, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian squints at him when the slowly rising sun peeks up over the bleachers, “he’s nice, but he’s not who I want.”

The shrill sound of a whistle comes from the dugouts.

“Back to work, boys!” Coach yells at them from his seat, raising his takeaway cup of coffee when they turn and look at him.

“Starting to think I should’ve just talked to you,” Mickey mutters and throws the dugouts the finger when he’s reasonably certain that Coach is looking the other way. Ian snorts out a laugh and nods.

“But hey,” he says and points the grabber tool at Mickey, before picking up a plastic cup from the ground and shoving it down his bag, “call it a performance piece and include it in your portfolio. Win, win, win.”

Mickey grins and before he knows it, he’s stepped up to Ian and all the way into his space, looking up into his wide eyes.

And it’s nothing but fucking fireworks when he pulls him down for a kiss.

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was sassy enough (the prompt specifically asked for sass), and 80s-inflected enough! I might have taken inspiration from high school movies ranging all the way from the 80s to early 00s, because I'm a rebel like that.
> 
> [Here's a playlist with songs](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/7qlpEpFGU7r4f8NcDXGATq), and here's [me](http://loftec.tumblr.com/).


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